


Undeserved merit

by Misila



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Canon, Spanish Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 00:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misila/pseuds/Misila
Summary: Crowley had got a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition. He had been in Spain then, mainly hanging around cantinas in the nicer parts, and hadn't even known about it until the commendation arrived. He'd gone to have a look, and had come back and got drunk for a week.— Good Omens, Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman(Or, how Crowley learnt about the Holy Inquisition.)





	Undeserved merit

 

 

 

 

**_21 st of December of 1504._ **

**_Near the Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos, Kingdom of Córdoba, Crown of Castile._ **

The river came turbid, carried rocks and branches in its angry, dark whirlpools. Most of the debris did not make it past the bridge, getting stuck in its way too old stone piers and narrowing its arches. The weather in the city itself was nearly pleasant; but, unless it stopped raining upstream soon, it would take a miracle for the Roman bridge to keep standing by the end of the week.

A miracle which, for the record, Crowley was not going to perform.

He was sitting on the edge of the bridge, legs dangling a few metres above the murky waters. He would love to be lost in thought, or just staring off into the river that tried to escape the path it had carved through the centuries; but in spite of the bright sun hovering over the city it was too cold to think, nearly too cold to be awake.

Putting aside the fact that it was winter, the latest decades had got progressively cooler no matter where Crowley went; it was as if the entirety of Europe had agreed on freezing. Moody and on the verge of hibernating for a couple of centuries, the demon had migrated south; but the weather was nothing like the last time he had ventured close to the Mediterranean.

(It was still somewhat warmer than England though, and the food was definitely good.)

Scrunching up his nose, Crowley huddled up further within his cape. After a couple of seconds though, he leapt to his feet and started walking, without the slightest idea of his destination but determined to not freeze.

Sometimes having a physical body was a pain.

He did not make it very far; two dark figures stood at the end of the bridge, impervious to the suspicious stares they attracted whenever a carriage drove past and the filthy children trying to be casual and decided against stealing from such strange gentlemen.

They didn’t even know they weren’t people, but they were still quite wise, in Crowley’s opinion.

He wasn’t a person either, so he felt the smallest bit more confident about walking up to Hastur and Ligur, steps resolute. Even though he hadn’t done anything particularly heinous lately, the torn, intolerant society stained with wars and exiled people was already rotten enough without any demonic intervention.

“All hail Satan,” the two Dukes of Hell greeted in unison. Their human forms barely held themselves together, the nightmares they were made of peeking from the blurred edges. No wonder they were safe from theft; nobody wanted to anger a couple of monsters.

“…All hail Satan,” Crowley replied quietly. Oh, how he despised the protocolary greeting. To any passer-by that overheard them, it sounded ridiculous, the vocal equivalent to some sort of secret handshake a few eight-year-olds made up to exclude everyone outside their group of friends. “What do I owe the honour?”

“Oh, come on, there’s no need to play dumb,” Hastur said. If Crowley hadn’t known him for several millennia, he would have sworn his superior was smiling; he sounded oddly satisfied, tone nearly sweet. “That Holy Office thing was such a good idea… So promising.”

Crowley’s first instinct was to ask a simple, straightforward _what Holy Office thing_. Such a reaction, however, would have given away the fact that whatever atrocious idea the humans had had this time had actually little to do with himself; so instead he smirked, intertwining his hands behind his back, under the cape that did little to guard him from the cold.

“Ah, that,” he said instead. “It wasn’t that hard, honestly. I just gave them a push in the wrong direction.”

“The right one, then,” Ligur intervened with what was probably the closest thing to a sense of humour anyone permanently living in Hell could develop.

“Everyone is so excited down there,” Hastur continued. “Lord Beelzebub praised your inventive.”

Crowley’s smile tensed, muscles freezing to keep it spread across his face. Nothing Beelzebub liked could be good.

(Which, on the other hand, was sort of the whole point of being a demon.)

“Why so humble? Here.” Ligur held his hand up, a folded paper entering reality on his palm as he offered it to Crowley, who quickly got over the dread slightly fogging his lungs to snatch it off. “This makes it official.” Ligur grimaced, as if he had just tasted something extremely sour. “You know. Bureaucracy.”

Crowley grimaced back with a nod, just as displeased. “Bureaucracy.”

Without another word (but quite a loud _pop_ ) Hastur and Ligur vanished without a trace, disregarding every social convention that stated that disappearing in thin air was, at the very least, rude. Especially in front of beings who couldn’t.

The good thing about humans is that their brains tend to reject unexplainable events, forgetting them or pretending they never _actually_ happened outside their imagination. A few people halted at the noise, and the young thieves stared, wide-eyed, at the space that up until a second prior had contained two Dukes of Hell. But Crowley didn’t look startled, and if the person who had just been talking to the two suspicious gentlemen found nothing strange in them disappearing once their conversation was over, it wasn’t their place to stick their nose in the matter.

After a couple of seconds, a gust of wind dishevelled the demon’s hair, reaching through copper locks to send a shiver running down his spine.

 _Right_ , Crowley thought, advancing into a maze of streets where the cold air hovering over the river couldn’t reach him. Only then did he unfold the paper, read the hieroglyphs supposed to have a meaning.

He read the letter a second time, then once more.

The full name of what Crowley had apparently had a hand in creating was the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

The demon breathed out something that might have been a swearing in a dead language. He didn’t trust anything with such a long name to be a remotely good idea.

 

 

 

**_22 nd of December of 1504._ **

**_El Marrubial, Kingdom of Córdoba, Crown of Castile._ **

Alright.

So the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

The locals referred to it as the _Inquisition_ because they were, first and foremost, practical people.

That was about all Crowley could praise about them as he watched a procession enter the plaza at dawn, led by a white cross and priests on horseback and followed by about one hundred people whose colourful clothes spoke about the heresy they had committed— prisoners, all of them dragging their feet, shaking way too much even though it was winter.

Crowley crossed his arms, surveyed the place once more. The Holy Inquisition had even built stands, and a lot of faces could be seen peeking from the windows of the buildings surrounding it.

This wasn’t merely a mass execution— it was a spectacle.

Crowley had done his research the afternoon prior, of course: but witnessing an auto-da-fe with his own eyes was quite different from hearing about how those people’s sin was practising the wrong religion –as if the Almighty _cared_ –, having sex without being married or fancying the wrong people.

His expression grew more sombre as the authorities took their seat and an official started a speech that, unless Crowley’s Spanish wasn’t as good as he thought, attempted to dissuade the public from committing heresy, using the dejected convicts as an example of what would happen if they dared to anger God.

 _As if the Almighty cared_ , Crowley thought again, unable to supress a huff. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the children that had considered stealing from Hastur and Ligur the day prior; the two boys looked around ten, their faces ashen as they clasped each other’s hand. So easily frightened by just a speech; by the time the ceremony was over they’d be the most exemplary Christians.

As for Crowley, he had experienced his share of leaders using fear to establish their power. He tuned out the lecture for a while, only paying attention when the official addressed the prisoners.

The conversation he caught was among a few maidens squeezed up a few steps behind him though:

“ _¿Piedad para los impenitentes que se arrepientan? ¿De veras?_ ”

“ _Eso es piedad, Isabel._ ”

“ _¿Y de qué sirve? Van a acabar en la hoguera de todos modos._ ”

“ _Pero se les dará garrote vil primero. Mejor eso que arder vivo._ ”

“ _Oh, sí, cuánta amabilidad._ ”

“ _Isabel, por favor._ _Estamos en la calle._ ”

Crowley nearly smiled at the sarcasm dripping off Isabel’s voice. He couldn’t help but agree.

But he didn’t, because as time passed every reason to feel joy slipped away between his fingers like water.

To his credit, Crowley stayed until the auto-da-fe ended and the executions started— he watched the convicts be tied to stakes and the branches and trunks piled up around them. He didn’t move when the fire started, when the condemned started screaming in agony and people threw horehound to the flames so as to conceal the stench of death. He wished to go blind, deaf and lose his sense of smell; and yet he stood there, unmoving.

The demon sniffed at the burnt flesh mixed with horehound, heard the crowd’s jeering and stared at the over one hundred people burning alive until his body grew so numb that he barely flinched at the horror in front of him. And he reached two conclusions.

One: humans had _really_ outdone themselves this time.

Two: he was way too sober to deal with this.

 

 

 

**_29 th of December of 1504._ **

**_El Realejo, (former Nasrid) Kingdom of Granada, Crown of Castile._ **

The best way to deal with a hangover, Crowley had learnt shortly after humans invented alcoholic beverages, was drinking more. It was certainly not the most effective nor the one people with some knowledge about livers and physiology recommended, but it had somehow worked for a whole week and Crowley wasn’t confident about his current ability to miracle himself sober without accidentally turning all the wine in the city into water.

Though now that he thought about it, that would anger a lot of people.

(And would sober up just as many, so they might actually choose to do something worthwhile with their lives.)

Crowley had hopped from tavern to tavern in his crusade to get as far from Córdoba as he could; in his escape he had reached Granada, and after stealing a couple of wineskins from a group of merchants he might have got lost within the gigantic labyrinth of narrow streets that seemed about to collapse on him with every sip. He had solved the problem by climbing (or perhaps flying and maybe also crawling a bit) to the roof of a building from which he could see the city getting ready to go to sleep as the sun sank into the horizon.

The sight wasn’t bad though, so Crowley decided to stay for a little longer. He liked the quiet darkness taking over the city, appreciated the charm in the tangled streets paved with rounded small stones that sunk into one’s soles. The weather was admittedly too cold for his liking, but it wasn’t much worse than Córdoba. And it had an endearing lack of people burning alive.

Which he had supposedly caused.

Scrunching up his nose, Crowley downed half the wine in the recipient. Alcohol seeped the warmth out of him faster and made Granada sway before his eyes, yet he was still somehow not drunk enough.

It wasn’t as bad as the fourteenth century, he told himself. Nothing would ever be worse than the fourteenth century.

But damn, the sixteenth century was really trying its best so far.

“Crowley?”

The wineskin slipped between his fingers and fell to the roof, the dark drink flowing out and trickling down between auburn tiles. Crowley didn’t particularly care.

His attention was caught by a figure standing in the street, a familiar silhouette outlined light against the night flooding the air. No matter how inebriated he was, how many decades it had been since they had seen each other; Crowley would never fail to recognise the only constant throughout History, the closest thing to a friend he had in both Earth and Hell.

Crowley grunted. Aziraphale took a step closer.

“What are you doing here?”

After a couple of seconds where Crowley made it clear he would not answer –partly because he didn’t know if _here_ meant drinking himself to oblivion on top of a roof or in Granada in general, partly because he had no response aside from a helpless stammer–, Aziraphale sighed, looked around and upon making sure there was nobody watching them let his wings manifest to go take a seat next to Crowley.

The angel didn’t try to engage him in a conversation again, instead reaching for the fallen wineskin. Aziraphale brought it to his mouth to try it and licked his lips as he looked up, at the crescent moon and the stars twinkling above their heads.

The silence between them was comfortable, somewhat warm and accepting of their quiet complicity, the lack of words a bridge instead of a wall. It had been nineteen years since the last time they had seen each other –not that Crowley had kept count–; it might seem long for human standards, but in the beginning they would hardly meet up once every couple of centuries.

Eventually Crowley retrieved the wineskin from Aziraphale’s lap, but his hand halted before taking a new sip.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked.

Aziraphale tore his gaze off the stars. “Oh, just trying the food. The locals here just found America and are bringing products from there. Have you ever tried tomatoes?” Crowley shook his head. “You’d love them; we can get some tomorrow… What about you?”

It took Crowley nearly a minute to make up his mind.

“Unofficially, the same.” His tongue tripped over those three words, bitter. “Officially, convincing humans that burning heretics by dozens is a good idea.”

Aziraphale’s easy smile fell. “Oh, dear.”

“Their own idea,” Crowley insisted. “Just so you know.”

“I do.” Aziraphale’s wings shook a little; it was only then that Crowley realised his own were sprawled on the roof behind him, soft and so dark they merged with the night. _It was flying, then_. “They’re not doing it here.”

“Yet.” Crowley set the wineskin down for good, rubbed at his eyes behind the dark glasses hiding them. They itched with exhaustion and a burning feeling lodged in the back of his throat too; and yet he was colder than he had been since witnessing the executions in Córdoba. “Might as well sleep for a couple of years; humans won’t need my services for a while anyway.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I think you may feel better once you sober up.”

A sarcastic reply made it to Crowley’s lips, but he swallowed it back down at the chilly breeze blowing across the sea of roofs. Something hid the sky from sight; after a couple of seconds the demon realised it was Aziraphale’s white wing, hovering over him.

“’s not raining,” Crowley whined.

Aziraphale’s remark came quiet, warm and soft.

“You’re shivering.”

“That’s just because I’m cold, angel.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around his torso, but truth was not even his cape was enough to shelter him from the freezing night. As it lowered and quietly draped over his shoulders though, Aziraphale’s wing was. Instinctively Crowley inched closer to the angel, seeking both warmth and the comfort of his presence.

They sat there for what felt like hours, watching the city rest and the moon travel across the sky until sleepiness caught up with Crowley. He leant his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, took embarrassingly long to decide against dozing off on his supposed enemy and straightened up instead.

“Do you want to join me in my gastronomic tour tomorrow?” Aziraphale proposed, blinking as Crowley stretched his arms over his head. His wing never left Crowley though.

Crowley pretended to consider it.

“Only if I can try tomatoes,” he replied, smiling a bit when Aziraphale’s expression lit up.

“Of course.”

 _Maybe_ , Crowley thought, tried to believe, _this century will be a bit better than the fourteenth one_.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I hope you liked the fic.
> 
> Though I'm going to be honest here, the main reason I wrote this was it gave me an excuse to set a fic in my country.
> 
> That being said, several things about the fic:
> 
> —A bit random but the concept of "Spain", as an unified country, didn't exist at the point the story is set.
> 
> —The dialogue Crowley overheard, because I could've just translated it in the fic but WHERE'S THE FUN THEN:
>
>> "Compassion for the repentant? Really?"  
> "That  _is_ compassion, Isabel."  
> "And what is it for? They'll end up in the fire anyway."  
> "But they'll be garroted first. Better than being burnt alive."  
> "Oh, yes, how kind."  
> "Isabel, please. We're in the street."
> 
> —All the places mentioned in the story do actually exist.
> 
>   * The Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos in Córdoba is a fortress that was used by the Inquisition as a tribunal/torture chambers/prison for heretics.
>   * _El Marrubial_ , though nowadays is nothing interesting, was a _quemadero_ , or a place where autos-da-fe and executions were carried out. The reason it's called like that it's that horehounds used to grow in the area (in Spanish they're called "marrubios") and it seems people actually threw them to the fire in hopes its smell made the one from people burning more bearable.
>   * _El Realejo_ is Granada's traditional Jewish quarters.
> 

> 
> —Crowley's complaints about the weather aren't unfounded. From the 13th to the 19th century there was a period of general cooling called the Little Ice Age, reaching the lowest temperature around the second half of the seventeenth century.
> 
> —Autos-da-fe weren't usually held the same day as executions, but I took some liberties there.
> 
> (That being said, I'm by no means a historian or anything remotely close, so I apologise if I messed up somewhere.)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Comments keep authors going, so please consider leaving one. I'd love to know what you think about the fic!
> 
> (also: I'm @nenufair on twitter in case you want to yell at me about ineffable husbands on there)


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